


dereworthy heart

by nosfelixculpa



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, M/M, Non AU, also the actual fic isnt in lapslock i just like how it looks for titles and summaries idk man, and also if i should raise the rating but i dont think so, come for me if it is to Correct me, golden deer route for the simple reason that, i dont think theres anything triggering btw, its basically several thousand words of casphardt sharing a braincell, like blood and violence is mentioned but its not detailed, lmk if u need me to tag anything tho idm, nd being cute, pre and post verdant wind ch 22 (?) ive not actually finished the route yet so dont come for me, soft, they are pure of heart nd dumb of ass therefore that is where they belong, uuuh what else, uuuuhhh, v mild angst bc there is a war going on after all kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosfelixculpa/pseuds/nosfelixculpa
Summary: “what’s going on, lin?” caspar murmured, uncharacteristically quiet as he let the gently probing question hang in the air between them.“nothing.”“linhardt.”linhardt thought about denying him an honest answer for the second time, but one look at caspar’s firmly set jaw made him sigh in defeat. sure, the boy wasn’t the brightest or most tactful seed in the soil, but he was stubborn and goodhearted; qualities that made him utterly relentless at times such as these.“i wish we could just, run away from all of this.”“me too.”
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	dereworthy heart

Linhardt had just pulled his hair free from its half up-do, and brushed at what (little) he could when Caspar wandered in, still in full armour; dust and mud caking his skin.

“Ah, excellent timing. Could you get the back?” he asked, waving the brush at the back of his head lazily.

It’s only when Caspar gets closer that Linhardt realises exactly _how_ dirty he is.  
“Uh, no,” he retracted firmly, causing Caspar to stop abruptly, tilting his head in a way that reminded Linhardt of the many strays inhabiting the monastery. “Do bathe first, Caspar.”

“Oh come on, it’s not like your hair’s clean anyway,” Caspar scoffed, but started unbuckling the leather straps securing armour to his shoulders and arms even so, a crease forming between his brows as he concentrated.

“Well actually, when I thought about how we’re probably going to die tomorrow, I decided it couldn’t hurt to make one last effort,” Linhardt replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but unable to stop the smallest of sighs getting past his lips as he finished speaking.

“We’re not gonna die,” Caspar assured confidently as he let his armour and gauntlets hit the floor with a heavy thud - left and then right.

“I can’t believe you actually washed your hair,” he continued in amazement, bare fingers running through the unusually silky soft locks gently. “It smells good.”

“Hey, I wash it plenty,” Linhardt argued halfheartedly, moving to prop a hand under his chin as the feeling of Caspar’s hands in his hair got more repetitive; eyelids drooping.

“Washing it a little more couldn’t hurt,” Caspar replied, addressing the top of his head; winding olive strands around his fingers before letting them unravel slowly.

“You could start tomorrow, y’know. When we win.”

“If,” Linhardt corrected automatically, but it lacked the firm edge he had originally intended, coming out slurred and drowsy as Caspar launched into an animated retelling of the ending day; hands still carding through his hair.

What wakes him isn’t the usual ache between his shoulder blades or crick in his neck, but instead a growing numbness subjected solely to his left foot - the rest of him was really quite comfortable and warm. Sliding his exposed foot under the covers, Linhardt realised with concealed laughter that whoever put him to bed must have struggled somewhat; most notably with the excess length of his limbs.

Stretching languidly, he cracked open an eye as his hand fell on empty, cold sheets.

“I hope you’re clean now,” Linhardt warned, as he spotted a figure reentering the room through the flickering candlelight, looking distinctly smaller in loose night clothes.

“Squeaky,” Caspar replied, clambering into bed so theatrically that droplets fell from his still wet hair onto Linhardt’s pillow and cheek. Any other night the olive-haired boy would’ve began fussing immediately, getting up to toss a cloth in Caspar’s face, grumbling something about both of them falling ill if the idiot kept _insisting_ on sleeping with wet hair. But that wasn’t the case tonight.

Tonight, he simply blinked once or twice, stare seeming distant as he reached up to brush still dripping hair out of Caspar’s eyes.

“What’s going on, Lin?” Caspar murmured, uncharacteristically quiet as he let the gently probing question hang in the air between them.

“Nothing.”

_“Linhardt.”_

Linhardt thought about denying him an honest answer for the second time, but one look at Caspar’s firmly set jaw made him sigh in defeat. Sure, the boy wasn’t the brightest or most tactful seed in the soil, but he was stubborn and goodhearted; qualities that made him utterly relentless at times such as these.

“I wish we could just, run away from all of this.”

“Me too.”

They both knew that wasn’t strictly true. Of course, Caspar hated the _war_ as much as Linhardt did, as much as everyone surely did - but the prospect of righteous battle and deserved bloodshed fueled him. Given his pacifistic beliefs, it was something Linhardt would never truly understand, but instead had come to accept.

“But we can’t,” Caspar finished with a sigh, sliding down to lie on his back, head sinking back into his pillow as he stared at the ceiling.

“But we _could_ ,” Linhardt insisted, sitting up and leaning into Caspar’s line of sight earnestly. 

“We could leave before sunrise, and be miles away by daybreak.”

He heard Caspar hum contemplatively, a gentle; almost wistful smile playing on his lips. 

“What about the others?”

Linhardt didn’t have an answer for that. By others, he knew he meant those who had dared oppose Edelgard and her empire along with them: Bernadetta, Dorothea, Petra. They couldn’t just abandon them.

“And what would people say?” Caspar went on, eyes following the movement of a lone moth fluttering about the room. “What would our fathers say?”

“I don’t care what anyone says,” Linhardt said stubbornly, even though he knew it was pointless to argue. They could leave, but they wouldn’t be any happier - the war would still be a war.

“I only care what you say.”

“Well then, did you know that rabbit-”

“No, wai-”

“Rabbits, cute little rabbits? They’re actually considered predators-”

“ _Caspar,_ no-” 

Linhardt groaned dramatically before jamming a hand over the _incredibly_ loud mouth in front of him. Not that it did much. His eyes widened in horror at the unmistakable feeling of Caspar’s tongue against his hand.

“Ugh, Caspar! You -!”

Needless to say, he ranted for a few minutes, lecturing about how a knight should hold themselves - _regardless_ of being on duty or not, and the sheer amount of germs found not only on someone’s hands but in their _mouths…_

“You are disgusting,” Linhardt concluded flatly as he lay on his back, watching orange light dance across the shadowy ceiling.

He heard an airy chuckle, the mattress shifting as Caspar shuffled over until his breath was warm on Linhardt’s cheek.

“But?” Caspar intoned, waiting expectantly.

“But nothing,” Linhardt replied emotionlessly. “You’re disgusting.”

Caspar just laughed again, this time barely audible.

“Your hair really does smell nice,” Caspar mumbled after a while, making Linhardt start slightly. He was never that quiet unless he was asleep.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing,” Linhardt muttered quietly, swiveling and getting a mouthful of aqua hair; before slipping down so they were eye level with eachother.

“Hm?” Caspar blinked dumbly, feigning innocence.

Unfortunately for him, Linhardt knew well enough to know when Caspar was being genuinely doltish and when he was just acting. This was one of those latter times.

“Don’t act dense,” Linhardt chided knowingly. “You’ve been distracting me all night.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Caspar brushed him off, though at this close a proximity, even in the poor light Linhardt could see the faintest pink dusting his cheeks.

“You just…You’ve looked so tired but you haven’t been sleeping, and I mean..Are you even Linhardt if you aren’t sleeping?”

“Mm. There’s a compliment in there somewhere,” Linhardt pretended to deliberate, before leaning in to press a chaste kiss to the other’s lips.

That’s all he had meant it to be, nothing more than a peck of gratitude. But he heard a sigh as he pulled away, and then Caspar’s nose was bumping against his as he clumsily found his mouth again under the tranquil glow of the moon.

“It’s funny,” Linhardt felt more than heard Caspar murmur at the corner of his mouth before proceeding to plant another kiss there.

“What’s funny?” he echoed distractedly, far too occupied by fingers grazing through the hair on his scalp, and sporadic kisses to his lips to truly care about this new source of amusement.

“How you’re fine with us swapping spit but you freaked out when I licked your hand.”

“ _Please_ refrain from using that vulgar phrase, Caspar,” Linhardt implored, fixing the boy now casually leaning against his chest with a withering look. “Where did you even hear it?”

“Hilda,” Caspar replied matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge.

“I heard her telling Lysithea how she caught the professor and Claude ‘swapping spit’ the other day.”

“Oh,” was all Linhardt could manage, taken aback by the actually informative answer, and the unwanted visual image it incurred; whilst also - and not for the first time - questioning certain choices of his heart. “Well, I would prefer it if you never said it in my company again.”

“Do you refuse to swap spit with me again if I do?”

“Yes. _Good night,_ Caspar.”

*

It felt as though they had only closed their eyes a minute or two before birdsong and weak, wintery sunlight had them opening again.

There was no trace of light-hearted joking from the previous night as the pair got ready in silence: Linhardt helping secure Caspar’s armour, before Caspar sat him down to pin the hair out of his eyes in its signature style.

As they stepped out into the grounds, the atmosphere was sombre; the air thick and muggy as though there were a storm brewing.

It got no better when they were on their way. Everyone was quiet, walking in chosen pairs and groups but no words were exchanged, only burdened glances and lingering touch.

The bereft weight of the day continued to follow them, pushing Linhardt down further into the mud that sucked greedily at his boots, making him stumble. Caspar was quick to take pity on him, hoisting him up onto his back despite his waning protests; but even he had limits.

He seemed about ready to reach them when Leonie appeared beside them, dismounting swiftly.

“A pack mule for the noble steed,” she joked kindly, before scratching behind the horse’s ears to show she didn’t mean it. “You need her more than I do.”

Caspar nodded, grinning gratefully at her as she helped him and then Linhardt mount safely.

For the second time in recent days, Linhardt awoke feeling surprisingly comfortable, but more than a little disorientated. It took him a few seconds to realise he was on a mount, clutching at Caspar in surprise as he almost slipped sideways, cheek ripping painfully from where it had seemingly melded to the metal of Caspar’s armour whilst asleep.

“Well, look who finally decided to join us,” Caspar greeted brightly, not bothering to turn around.

“Just in time too,” Claude informed, overhearing from where he took up the front atop his wyvern. “Mornin, Linhardt.”

Squinting over Caspar’s shoulder, Linhardt could make out where the trees thinned out to one great, open expanse of land.

“We’re almost there,” Caspar supplied needlessly, angling awkwardly to see him out the corner of his eye. “Okay?”

Linhardt didn’t trust his voice to remain steady with a verbal answer. Silently, he found Caspar’s hand, threading their fingers together with difficulty, hoping to reassure that he was okay. That they would both be okay.

Doubt began to set in once they arrived in the clearing and it was time to dismount, Linhardt’s knees threatening to buckle as soon as his feet hit the bottomless mud.

“Okay, listen up!” Claude rallied, looking determined and confident as he surveyed them all.

“This is our last shot, so we’ve gotta give it our all. Close combatants, go out there and give them hell. Magic users - stay back, you’re no use to us if you’re dead.”

“And one more thing,” Claude continued, pausing dramatically. “Absolutely no dying allowed. Got it?”

Oh, how Linhardt wished everything covered in that riveting motivational speech had been so easy. He had tried his best to stay back, forcing himself to stay put even after Caspar charged off, getting lost in a stream of glinting metal and tearing flesh.

But, despite his best efforts he found himself on his knees amidst the fighting, struggling to regain his footing after the charge of a rogue cavalier. He was holding his ground well enough, magic sparking at his fingertips with just enough power to fell his enemies, not kill them. There was no reason for them to suffer the same fate as Edelgard - she was the queen, they were nothing more than her mindless drones.

So focused on his attacks being non fatal, Linhardt froze when a crimson ball of light crackled past, a burnt smell hitting him as it singed his hair. He whipped round just in time to see an armoured knight fall to the ground, heavy axe following suit.

“Certainly need eyes in the back of your head in this place,” Dorothea spoke matter-of-factly, while the rest of her body slackened in relief.

“Thank you,” Linhardt mumbled, still processing exactly how close that axe had come to being embedded in his skull. He took Dorothea’s offered hand gratefully, hauling himself up heavily.

“As soon as I make an opening, I need you to run,” the mage instructed calmly, eyes scanning the surrounding area for any enemies that should decide to lock on to either of them.

“But..” Linhardt trailed off as he took in the hard set of Dorothea’s mouth, the way he could just barely see her trembling. If there was one person he could think of that hated violence to the same extent as him, it was Dorothea.

“Don’t argue with me,” she continued firmly, firing off another round of magic to an approaching pegasus knight. “You’re a healer. If you’re not alive, no one will be.”

Linhardt knew she was right. So when he could, he ran, forcing himself not to look back as he ducked and swerved. Just as he spotted a clear opening, free of vengeance and bloodshed, an enemy axe whistled downward before him. Skidding in panic, he tried to stop, squeezing his eyes shut when he realised his attempts were fruitless. White exploded behind his eyelids, followed by dizzying pain and then; darkness.

Given his experience on previous days, Linhardt half expected to wake up comfortable and warm, nose buried in the crook of Caspar’s neck. No such luck today.

He jerked awake, mud cold and wet against his cheek, the taste of blood strong in his mouth; a dull, constant throbbing in his temple.

“Petra!”

Glancing up, Linhardt spotted Dorothea sprinting through the the sea of debris and bodies carelessly, before engulfing Brigid’s princess in a tight hug.

Smiling in relief that the pair seemed relatively unscathed, Linhardt surveyed the rest of his surroundings in an attempt to get his vision to clear. Squinting through the overcast, far too bright light, he could make out Claude chatting easily with the professor as if they were just out for a late night stroll - not as though they had just quelled an uprising. Further back, he witnessed Ingrid shaking Sylvain until it seemed certain his head would fly free from his neck, but thankfully for all, it stayed intact.

Watching his classmates reunite with loved ones made Linhardt’s chest tighten as he realised someone was missing.

With great struggle, Linhardt stood, spinning on the spot in hopes of spotting Caspar through the still dispersing fog.

Still, nothing.

He was about to set off, stumbling and staggering through the mud aimlessly, as Marianne caught him gently by the wrist. Wordlessly, she set him down on a tree stump just off the edge of the bloodied battlefield, surrounding him with a familiar, soothing glow.

“Marianne, have you seen Caspar?” Linhardt asked hopefully, as his vision cleared and the throbbing in his head eased to a mild headache.

She didn’t answer him straight away, and Linhardt couldn’t quite decide the nature of her silence - in his heart he was hopeful, whilst his head only filled with gruesome, logical what-ifs and could-haves.

“I have not,” Marianne answered gently. “But I’m sure he is safe. The Goddess will see to it.”

Sure enough, just as the words fell from her lips, the silhouette of two figures appeared in the fog.

“Identify yourselves,” Felix called out to them cautiously, fingers poised at the hilt of his sword warily.

“Raphael!” the larger called cheerfully, sounding bright and jovial as ever as he punched the air triumphantly.

The smaller figure had yet to answer, but if he squinted, Linhardt was _sure_ he recognised them…

“Raphael and -?”

“Caspar,” Linhardt breathed, before taking off at a run, ignoring the way every muscle protested as he forced them to keep going, just a little longer.

“Hey! Linha-”

Raphael’s greeting cut short as Linhardt flew past him, the sudden impact making Caspar stagger backwards. They stayed like that a moment, Linhardt breathing in the unpleasant aroma of blood and sweat willingly as he grounded himself, fingers digging into the headstrong soldier's back.

“Lin? Hey.”

Linhardt pulled back to look at the owner of the hushed, tentative voice, whose features contorted blearily as tears threatened to spill over.

“We won,” Caspar grinned proudly, knocking his knuckles against Linhardt’s chin softly, clicking his tongue as he did so. “Told ya.”

**Author's Note:**

> nobody:
> 
> me: would u like 2k+ words of casphardt being boyfren goals in a time of great war nd suffering


End file.
